Reuters News Bureau: London. 10.25 7/5/82: The British Government today extended the Total Exclusion Zone surrounding the Falkland Islands to 200 (two hundred) miles. This takes it to within 12 (twelve) miles of the Argentine mainland coast.
The whole camp knew what had happened to Tooks and Lippy Grant within an hour. In fact, men from A Squadron, who’d gone home to their wives and kids, were suddenly around in abundance, not asking but looking curious. With over fifty men on the base who saw themselves as staring down the barrel of a gun, the nature of the proposed operation soon became common currency too.
Any SAS troop contained individuals who’d been in the Regiment for years. Men whose experience could be relied on. But it had, as well, troopers who’d just been badged and everything in between. The newcomers were the most eager to prove themselves. It mattered little. The squadron was in a ferment of speculation, the notion that they should follow the lead of the men who’d been dismissed gaining a strong following among the older, wiser heads.
In truth, there wasn’t an inexperienced soldier amongst them. In terms of self-motivation and commitment they were the best the British Army had to offer. Quite a few had come from their regiments as senior NCOs, accepting the loss of their rank to serve with the SAS. These were men who’d already shown high commitment and leadership potential. The longer-serving troopers had seen action in Dofhar, during Operation Storm, fighting rebels in the desert. But most men who’d been badged for any length of time had seen action.
The Regiment operated worldwide, often in small teams, doing jobs that they discussed amongst themselves, but of which the wider public was unaware. There was hardly an insurrection or revolution that they had not been close to. Coming to the aid of the civil power was a commonplace, doing those things which regular police forces couldn’t contemplate.
Of the newer recruits, many of them had served in Northern Ireland before doing selection, and had gained from that the one quality that made the Brits stand out as a fighting force, even amongst the world’s Special Forces. They’d been through the pressure cooker of the Ulster proving ground. They had been on a station where the threat of death was a constant, a possibility so all-pervading that anyone who couldn’t stand the heat soon got out of the Army, leaving behind men who could face the realities of a soldier’s job.
Perhaps men less experienced would have been fooled by Hosier’s flattery, and fallen for the ‘Death or Glory’ line. There were a few of those in B Squadron. But there were more whose intelligence made them question any orders, even if they never did so overtly. Men who were bright enough to see that the only place the Brigadier’s plan was going to lead them was to a plot in the regimental cemetery, and a plaque on the clock in Stirling Lines.
Yet ingrained pride and the habit of obedience were strong. If you cared about dying you could never be a badged trooper. What made them disgruntled was the notion of useless sacrifice for what might be no more than a token, black-bordered headline and a couple of decorations for Ruperts. So when Lowry sent for Sergeant Sam Clark, there was no mystery about what the Captain wanted. Sam, true to his nature, breezed in, grin well to the fore and not a hint of a salute in sight.
‘Sit down, Sam,’ said Lowry, waving to a chair.
Sam Clark stared hard at the chair, which forced the question out of the officer.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I just wondered if I was going to sit myself in a pile of shit.’
‘That’s me, old son, at least till Symington arrives.’
Sam Clark liked David Lowry, which was not something he gifted to many Ruperts, though he liked Gerry Tooks as well. But Tooksy had been a trooper, just like he was now, and had gone for pips to up his pension rights. He’d never been one for the double handshake, or taken much part in the eternal backstabbing that most Ruperts seemed to revel in. Lowry was minor public school and an ex-Para, normally good grounds for the old arm’s length. But there were exceptions to every rule. Sam was quite prepared to accept any Rupert who showed that he knew the score. That the British Army was run by the NCOs; that the best of them were badged SAS; and that the proper thing for a commissioned officer to do was stay out of the way of men who knew the job better than he did.
‘Is this it?’ he asked, tapping the top of a heap of files.
‘Most of it. The maps are in the War Room.’
‘Lippy Grant came to see me.’
‘And told you all.’
‘Fuckin’ right, he did.’
‘Shall I put him on a charge?’
It was a poor joke, wearily delivered, and the evidence that Sam Clark thought so was on his face long before he replied.
‘That’s not funny, Davey. His whole career’s just gone up the Swannee. Twelve years in the Regiment and he’s out on his arse because of a no good sod like Jock the Sock.’
‘Tell me about it, Sam,’ Lowry growled. ‘I might be just about to join him.’
‘You an’ me both.’
‘Hosier is spitting blood.’
‘By the pint, I hope.’
‘I know the first thing Symington is going to ask me. You’re the SQMS, next in line. I wondered if you’d like to take on Lippy’s job?’
‘The flagon with the dragon is the vessel with the poison; the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true.’
‘What?’
‘The Court Jester, mate,’ replied Sam Clark, an inveterate film buff. ‘Starred Danny Kaye and Virginia Mayo.’
‘Jester. Is that what that sod Hosier wants to be?’
‘The job,’ Sam insisted, bringing David Lowry back to the point. Much as he liked movies, this was no time to be discussing them.
‘Yes,’ Lowry responded.
‘There’s two probs.’
‘Which are?’
‘Lippy himself. We go back a long way. I’m not steppin’ into his size elevens unless he OKs it.’
‘And?’
Clark sat forward, suddenly very serious. ‘Look, Davey, you’re no different to Symington. You’ve both been shafted with making this work because you’re Ruperts. Turn it down like Gerry Tooks and it’s goodnight nurse.’
‘This is one Rupert who’d kind of like to stay in the Army, Sam.’
That produced a lop-sided grin and a swift response. ‘Quite right too. You’re never goin’ to get a job anywhere else, are you? It’s a hard, cold world out there and unemployment is three million.’
Lowry looked at his watch. ‘Our new boss will be here in less than half an hour. What’s the second condition?’
‘I need to talk with the boys. There’s no point in doing anything if they won’t buy it. Lippy and Tooksy doing what they did, well ... ‘ The voice trailed off.
‘What’s the mood?’
‘They’re like pigs near an abattoir, as jumpy as fuck.’
‘And you?’
‘Jock the Sock is an arse, and this ops he’s come up with is bollocks. I can just see him smooching round GHQ and Maggie Thatcher, promising the moon.’
‘Do I detect a positive note here?’
‘I was about to say we’ve got a reputation. We’re the best there is, no contest. I didn’t black up and leap around Princes Gate to let a cunt like Hosier bring us all down and make us look like wankers.’
The voice was rising as he spoke, Sam’s index finger beginning to jab the air. ‘I’ve been in this mob a full ten, and I’ve seen it change, Davey. We were good, but by fuck we’re better now. And that didn’t come about because of our fucking Ruperts. It came about because of the kind of people that pass selection—’
Lowry held up his hands, because, as usual when Sam Clark started on about the way the Regiment was run, he was becoming very, very passionate.
‘I’m sold, remember.’
Sam tapped the files. ‘You know that bastard Hosier mentioned Entebbe. He’s a silly sod, always has been. But you never know, he might be right. Maybe, Davey my boy, we can pull it off.’
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Lowry replied, grimly. ‘If we can’t do it, nobody can.’
‘Damned right.’
The door flew open, to reveal the dishevelled figure of Major Vere Symington. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a torn Harlequins rugby shirt. He had both the height and the squashed features of a man who played rugby in the second row. Number four or five in the scrum was the place for real hardcases, or total dickheads, depending on your point of view. Those who didn’t admire them wondered how they could spend their lives with their heads stuck up someone else’s arse, getting punched by the opposition for their pains, and claim to enjoy it.
Symington would have said it was the only place to be, always in the thick of the action. His nose was flat from more than one break and his ears were like battered cauliflowers. But there was no doubting his air of authority, and the way he snapped his orders.
‘My office, David, if you please.’ The eyes shifted to Sam Clark, who met them with an even stare. ‘And be so good as to get someone to round up the rest of the troop commanders.’
‘Troop seniors as well, Vere?’
‘Just the officers at present, David.’
Symington was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, the rubber soles of his trainers squeaking on the hall floor.
‘Can I tell him you take the job, Sam?’ said Lowry. ‘It will make me look like a right arse if I can’t recommend an SSM.’
‘OK. But just as long as you know that I might give him the good news later. If the boys vote to bin this op, I’m not going to be the one standing out against them. It would be like fuckin’ High Noon.’
‘If it gets to that stage, we’ll all be in the shit.’
Symington called his first planning meeting within the hour. Washed, combed and his sparse, sandy hair tidy, he still looked like a complete ruffian. But he was the kind of ruffian you just knew was a gentleman, and one out of the very top drawer. It was an impression his rich, deep voice only served to underline, as he addressed the men he’d assembled: four troop commanders, Sam Clark and the troop seniors, plus a green slime intelligence officer.
‘Right chaps, we have a task. I will not refer now, or in the future, to my reasons for being given this command. I have it, and I shall exercise it with all the determination at my disposal. The mission is like Entebbe, with knobs on. To land at the Rio Grande air base on Tierra del Fuego, and destroy the capacity of the Argentines to threaten our Task Force ships. Method of entry, two Hercules! Weaponry, down to us! On the wall behind you are flight times for the C130s. First opinions?’
‘Radar window?’ asked David Lowry.
‘Four minutes, I’m told,’ Symington replied, with such languor the question had to be a prearranged plant.
‘Size of garrison?’
‘Unknown.’
‘How do we know they will be on that airfield, and not at Comodoro Rivadavia?’ asked Tommy Laidlaw, an Air Troop senior. ‘That’s where their main force is based.’
‘That will be taken care of. The details of how don’t matter.’ That was a clear warning not to enquire, and was taken. ‘Let’s just stick to our own task.’
The questions flew round the room, answers less forthcoming. There was no intelligence on the ground in Argentina, outside of Buenos Aires. And even that was slim. The airport was marked on the map, stuck out in the middle of nowhere, one of those desolate spots that probably allowed the installation to spread in all directions without hindrance. That was partly a plus. The main centres of activity, built when the place was selected as an airfield site, would be bunched together. That would include admin blocks, aircraft and maintenance hangars, the control tower, any communications and the accommodation for officers, pilots and the garrison. The peripherals – fuel storage, along with ammo and missile bunkers – which would have to be manned or guarded, should be well spread out. Since they intended to land in the middle, as close as possible to the nerve centre of the place, that might cut down on the opposition they’d have to face.
At this stage the job was to identify the main targets and assign the necessary troops to take them out. Every man in the room knew about airfields. They’d spent a lot of time on them, mostly waiting around to either go on training or an operation. All very different. But they had shared characteristics in the buildings and installations they needed to operate. Vere Symington had also to set various parameters, one being the number of vehicles.
There was no point in the troops planning their individual tasks, only to be told that they couldn’t take certain equipment. Weight slowed the aircraft, and added to fuel consumption: therefore it was agreed that a maximum of four Pinkies would be deployed. The Land Rovers would carry two co-axial-mounted GPMGs plus, stuffed in the back, Milan anti-tank missiles, which could be used to destroy aircraft or buildings. They could also penetrate the steel doors on missile bunkers.
‘Any chance of a bit of aerial photography?’ asked one of the troop sergeants.
‘None,’ the green slime officer replied. ‘Only the Yanks have satellites and high-flying spy planes that can do the job from space, and they’re not playing. If we overflight their bases at anything like low level we will only alert them to the possibility of a raid. We want the buggers as sleepy as possible.’
‘Right,’ said Symington, summing up. ‘Boat Troop, infantry assault. Main targets admin blocks, guardhouse and control tower, particular attention to be paid to the pilots’ accommodation. Mountain Troop, initial suppression of same targets, then covering fire for Boat Troop and destruction of peripheral installations. Air and Mobility Troops get the Pinkies. At least one must go after the Exocet missile storage. The rest, get about the place, destroy and distract, then provide covering fire for Boat and Mountain. Everybody to carry the means of aircraft destruction. Remember that time is a luxury. We have to lay down so much fire that we impose a sterile environment for as long as we need to do the job.’
‘When do we start rehearsals?’ asked Heering, one of the troop commanders.
‘The Director had tomorrow in mind,’ Lowry replied, seeing that his new OC had not thought that through.
‘That strikes me as a touch ambitious,’ said Symington quickly. ‘Let’s put a couple of days into planning, so we know we’ve got it right.’
The groups filed out, each to compile its own individual plan at troop level. These would then be brought back to the OC and thrown open to discussion. Overlaps were unavoidable. It was in the nature of the Regiment that troop commanders strove to achieve just that bit more than was possible. The OC had to adjudicate, adding to one troop’s task while downgrading the ambitions of another. Only when Symington felt that the best combination had been achieved would he then call the men of B Squadron together, and brief them on the overall plan and their detailed orders.
Sam Clark entered into the planning with the same enthusiasm as the others. The notion that his fellow troopers might bin the whole enterprise was not a consideration at this stage. He and his fellow NCOs came to the same conclusion without discussion. The boys had to have something to look at, and it was as much their responsibility as that of the new OC to make sure that what they got was the best appreciation of the risks possible. But Sam did mention the one part of the operation everyone else avoided, which was ‘E&E’. That earned him a glare from Symington, nods from the troop seniors and rather sheepish looks from the troop commanders.
‘I’ll deal with that one in the Interest Room.’
The atmosphere, the sense of anticipation and caution, when they filed into the Interest Room was so thick you could almost touch it. All the guys of B Squadron were there, in the place that was home to their collective memory. The walls were lined with photographs and mementos, the artifacts and snapshots of exploits that went all the way back to World War Two. There were the big group photos, whole-squadron shots taken on every training mission; the individuals and groups in Hereford and on operations. Pairs and foursomes grinning, either clean and drinking beer, or filthy and confined to water. Then there were the piss-taking shots, those magic moments when somebody fucked up on camera, his misdeeds mounted as a permanent memorial to his status as an arsehole.
A lot of the men in the photographs were retired, though they still lived for the reunions and spent as much time in the Interest Room, reliving their service, as they did in the regimental plot remembering their fallen comrades. Sam was wondering if Symington was wise to have his briefing here instead of the regimental theatre. If B Squadron had a collective soul, it was ingrained in these walls. Yet that might work in his favour. It might serve to remind the guys of what they needed to uphold. But the opposite might just be true. It could remind them of what they were being asked to sacrifice.
‘Right,’ called Symington. Every eye in the room was on him. There was no fidgeting or lounging now. This was the proper monty. ‘As per, I will outline the mission first then brief you on the overall plan. The first thing you will observe is that we have no model to work on. The info on this target is so sparse that in my opinion such a layout, which could only be speculative at best, would do more to mislead than enlighten anyone. In this case, when we down, it’s use your eyes and your experience.’
It wasn’t a good start, that admission that the whole operation was ad hoc. And it didn’t get any better as Vere Symington continued. Every planned move was hedged with ifs and buts, evidence that some of the time they might be running around like headless chickens looking for targets. And that all went back to the first big question: could they get down at all? Because the state of the anti-aircraft defence was just as speculative as the rest.
Symington expected some form of missile – either Tigercats or Rolands – because the Green Slime told him that was the highest estimated level of Argie equipment. The intelligence guys got some hard looks for that, though it wasn’t their fault that one of those systems, the Tigercat, was British. The French-built Rolands were more of a worry. First, they were a newer level of kit, and they had a range, 6,800 metres, which was a third greater than the Tigercat’s.
‘But both systems need time to lock on, and crucially someone has got to tell them to do it. No ordinary Joe is going to fire off a piece of kit worth a few thousand quid without express orders to do so.’
‘What about rapid-fire anti-aircraft cannon?’ asked a voice from the back.
‘They have it, I’m sure. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise. But from what we know it’s upgraded World War Two stuff, with an add-on control system. It represents a threat while we’re still airborne. But again, no one will let fly without orders, and that equipment will be rendered useless once we’re on the ground.’
‘No it won’t!’
That was said with such force that it turned a lot of heads. The speaker coloured slightly. Sam Clark registered the fact that it was the newest recruit to the squadron. Paul Hill, a member of Boat Troop so fresh he hadn’t even got his feet wet.
‘The guns can’t depress enough to fire at ground target,’ Symington insisted.
‘They can!’
‘That is not my information,’ Symington paused, and half-turned to David Lowry, dropping a cauliflower ear to pick up the whisper. Then he looked back at the speaker. ‘Trooper Hill.’
‘Then, boss, your information is wrong.’
Sam had to suppress a smile. The way Symington stiffened was, to him, a hoot. They could never get used to it, these Ruperts. Mind, at the same time he was impressed that Hill had spoken out so boldly. It wasn’t common for new boys to raise their heads so early. But the most significant thing had to come next. Sam knew very little about Paul Hill. He’d been a croupier before doing selection, which was just about as unusual as you could get. But in his past he’d been in the RAF Regiment, and they were the blokes that manned airfield defences. He must know more than Symington about ack-ack gunnery. But the new OC was probably unaware of that. Would the Rupert put his foot in it by challenging him? Chest puffed out, it certainly looked like it.
‘Hill’s right,’ said Serious Sid. ‘Ever since the days of German 88 mils nearly every gun made has been geared to fire at ground targets. That goes for Bofors and Oerlikons, which is, according to Jane’s, what the Argies are equipped with.’
Symington had already opened his mouth. But he shut it quickly enough when Sid Franklin spoke. The squadron bore, Serious Sid was one of those people who knew the details of everything. Most guys, handed a piece of kit, like a weapon, were only interested in what it could do. Not Sid! He had to know its weight, muzzle velocity, who designed it, where it was built and the name of the sire and mare. You didn’t ask him a question unless you wanted a very heavy earhole-bashing. And when he said a gun could be depressed, then it could be taken as fact.
‘If they’re Bofors,’ Sid continued, ‘they fire a point nine six shell at one hundred and twenty rounds a minute. They have a slant range of three thousand metres and a surface to surface range of just under nine thousand metres.’
‘Good,’ said Symington, recovering himself, and cutting Serious Sid off before he got on to barrel length and ceiling. ‘That’s what this briefing is about. Making sure we have it right. The final plan will not be formulated until we are on Ascension. And that will be after we’ve done some very heavy training.’
‘Second part, true,’ thought Sam Clark, ‘first part bollocks!’
The OC turned to the troop officers. ‘We will have to look at that, and perhaps redeploy some of the heavy firepower to take out the AA guns.’
‘If they concentrate on the planes, which they should do, we’ll nail them,’ added David Lowry, ‘because the Pinkies will be well clear in seconds. Perhaps they should have that as a primary target.’
‘Good thinking, David,’ Symington replied.
‘That four-minute radar window, boss?’ asked another trooper. ‘How sure are we of that?’
‘That is solid information. The RAF sent in Vulcans as soon as the Argies invaded. They hauled out as soon as it locked on, marked the spot for future reference, and they haven’t been back since. Our lot must think they’re safe by now.’
There was something not quite solid about the way Symington said that – a lack of real assurance, as though there was another answer.
‘If the Vulcans can get there, why don’t we just nuke them?’ demanded Serious Sid.
‘Politically impossible.’
Sam piped up. ‘Get the matelots to fit a conventional warhead to a Polaris. That would take out the runway.’
‘I’m sure that all such options have been discussed, and if they’ve been discarded it is for a very good reason.’
‘Like we need the permission of the Yanks to fire them,’ called Robbie Knox.
‘You been reading the Guardian again, Robbie?’ asked Sid.
‘Can we get on please?’ said Symington, wearily.
Question and answer flowed again, as the SAS troopers exercised their right to grill the men who commanded them. Very few of the responses satisfied. Even Vere Symington, a positive thinker par excellence, must have guessed the mood was gloomy. The guys didn’t like it and very few were making any pretence otherwise. It was Marty Roper, another Boat Troop member, who posed the killer – the same one Sam Clark had raised at the Command-level briefing.
‘And once we’ve worked the oracle, boss, how do we E&E?’
‘That again is an on-the-ground decision. Chile is not ill disposed to our dispute with Argentina. They’ve been at loggerheads for years over the very terrain we will cover. If there are vehicles to add to our own, we will motor out, and race for the Chilean border. If not, we will have to do it on foot, either as a fighting group or in smaller teams.’
‘I’d like to be convinced there’ll be enough men to make up a fighting group.’
That produced a growl from more than one throat, one which had the officers going stiff. Symington tried hard to control his voice, but he was clearly angry.
‘We will undertake this operation if the orders are given that we should do so. That is our job as members of the Special Air Service Regiment.’
That set up some more growling. These guys knew who they were, and they didn’t need some fuckin’ Rupert to remind them. What they needed was an escape and evasion plan that gave those who got through the assault a chance to survive.
‘Permission to speak to the men, boss?’ asked Sam Clark, moving out to the centre. He looked Symington right in the eye. ‘Without the officers being present.’
That was like a slap to every Rupert in the room, and Sam, with his hard look, made no attempt to soften the blow. The OC was glaring at him, part of the stare probably an attempt to make out which way the new SSM was inclined. Was he for the operation or against it? But it was also a request that couldn’t be denied. This was the Interest Room. It belonged to the men, not the officers. Asked to leave, they had little option but to comply with as much grace as they could muster.
‘How long?’ demanded Symington.
‘As long as it takes,’ Sam replied. The delay in adding ‘boss’ was deliberate.
‘There is a lot to do, Sam.’
‘I know that.’
Sam Clark deliberately looked over his shoulder to the assembled troopers. Their eyes told him discussion was useless. The OC nodded, and led the Ruperts out of the room.
Sam Clark didn’t mince his words. He put the alternatives plainly to the guys in front of him. Go in and get shot to fuck, or turn the whole operation down, which would mean handing it over to A Squadron, with every man in the room RTU’d. Even in normal times, any one of them could resign at a point of their own choosing and return to their original units. You came to the SAS as a volunteer, and you stayed that way. So he began by reminding them why they joined, and why they stayed. It wasn’t just ego-tripping. With this, the whole ethic of the Regiment was at stake. That if they had to go to the wall, so what. The people paid them their wages for just such a risk!
‘Then why did Lippy and Tooks turn it down?’ asked Johnny ‘Concorde’ Tucker, a member of Boat Troop with a huge, pointy nose.
‘They didn’t tum down doing it, mate,’ said Sam Clark. ‘What they turned down was ordering us in.’
Robbie Knox wiped his flat, broken nose. ‘Lippy always said that bastard Hosier would do for him one day.’
‘He’s about to do for the lot of us,’ added Marty Roper. ‘He’s a paid up member in the widow-making fraternity.’
‘I’ve got a wife and kids,’ Sam Clark added, ‘and I’m not the only one. But so have those poor bastards on the ships. Let’s fuckin’ get to the nitty of this. What happens if we blank it, they take a pasting, and the story gets out?’
He left them to think on that for a bit before continuing. ‘You blokes know me. I’m no nutter, am I?’
‘Except about bloody movies.’
Sam ignored that. ‘I can’t turn it down. I’m not going to let that cunt Hosier make me feel like a useless prick. But if anybody wants to take the same route as Lippy Grant, then I say they can walk without any comeback from the guys who stay.’
‘Aw, fuck it,’ came a voice from the back of the group. ‘Who Dares Wins.’
‘How about we talk it through, then decide?’ asked another.
Dinger Bell called from the back, his Geordie accent thick. ‘That could tak’ all bloody night, man.’
Concorde turned round to argue. ‘Well if you’ve got a better way of sorting this out without talking, I’d like to hear it. We’re not fuckin’ telepathic, you Tyneside berk!’
‘Calm doon, ya daft bugger.’
‘I make him right,’ said Sam Clark. ‘Let everybody have their say, then we either do it as a squadron, or blank it as a squadron.’
Dinger Bell was in like Flint. ‘Tell me if’n a’m wrang, man, but have you just changed yer tune? Half a mo ago ye were on aboot us ahl making up our own minds.’
‘I just had a thought, Dinger. That if we don’t stick together, it will be the fuckin’ Ruperts who have won.’
‘Sam. Ah don’t know where you’ve been all yer life, man. But the fuckin’ Ruperts always win.’